


Do the Wrong Thing

by iridescentglow



Category: Brothers & Sisters
Genre: American Politics, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 09:36:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentglow/pseuds/iridescentglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Futurefic. After the breakdown of his relationship with Scotty, Kevin struggles with his long-denied feelings for Robert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do the Wrong Thing

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers:** general spoilers for early s3
> 
> **Warnings:** angst, politics, more angst

"You've thought about it, though," Scotty prompted Kevin. "You always think about it."

The two of them lounged on the couch in the loft's living area. The TV played _The Daily Show_ quietly in the background, but they were both too tired to concentrate on Jon Stewart. The episode was yet another thing that was destined to sit on their TiVo for six months. They talked instead: the conversation loose and unfocused; their mouths spewing out sentences that their brains had not really had a chance to engage with.

Kevin recalls that, at that moment, Scotty tilted his head and waved his fingers vaguely – one of his slightly camp affectations that belied the wisdom of what he was saying. Then Scotty laughed: a happy murmur that reverberated between them as he leaned in for a single kiss.

"Don't worry," Scotty said, concluding his thought with a smile, "it's completely natural."

"Natural?" In his memory, Kevin can still hear himself spit the words out in disbelief.

Scotty, no longer easily cowed by Kevin's sarcasm, repeated firmly: "Natural. Everyone thinks about fucking their boyfriend's brother."

"That is not true," said Kevin

Scotty shook his head. "My first boyfriend, Steed—"

"_Steed_," Kevin muttered.

Ignoring Kevin's interruption, Scotty continued, "Steed was blond, really beautiful – muscle-y, but still natural-looking, in that way you can only be when you're 17. He was a swimmer. God, I love swimmers."

"I know. You've told me this story before. I've heard all about _Steed_."

"Yeah, but what I haven't told you is that he had a brother named Aaron, who was also beautiful, but in a sort of dark, tortured way. He wanted to be an artist… or an orthodontist. I think he saw people's teeth as something he could shape and mold. Like sculpture."

"Okay, Aaron was a psycho. I get it."

"Nooo. He was adorable. And I used to think about fucking him all the time. That's just the way it goes. I've thought about fucking every one of my boyfriends' brothers since," Scotty revealed casually. "Oh, except David, the Zoologist. His brother really _was_ a psycho."

"That means you've thought about fucking Justin," said Kevin. "You've thought about fucking _Tommy_. Yeuch. I am horrified."

"No, you're not," said Scotty matter-of-factly. "It's just life. You must have done it, too. Fantasized about someone's brother. Fantasized about a certain Republican senator…"

"I can assure you, I've never fantasized about John McCain."

"Ha _ha_. You know I mean Robert McCallister." Scotty leaned over and poked him in the ribs. "Admit it." He poked him again, and then flexed his fingers: a clear sign that he was about to start tickling.

"Okay, fine!" Kevin burst out, just as Scotty's fingers made their first scratch against his belly. "Maybe once or twice. As a purely academic exercise."

Scotty withdrew his hands, satisfied with Kevin's confession. He nodded serenely. "It's completely normal," he repeated.

Scotty was always good at that: taking the things that had caused Kevin shame and self-loathing since puberty and shining a beam of figurative sunlight on them. With a shrug and smile, he declared bondage, age-play, nipple clamps, watersports, cross-dressing and a whole range of other activities "harmless fun". He declared even Kevin's creepiest fantasies "totally normal". Kevin can still conjure Scotty's voice inside his head with ease:

_That's why they're called fantasies, sweetie. Because they're not real._

Kevin felt himself deflate, expelling his aggravation with a physical sigh. Scotty, sensing he'd struck a nerve, made an _aw_ sound at the back of his throat and pulled Kevin towards him. Kevin's head landed on his shoulder, so that he could feel the soft ripple of Scotty's breath against his hair. Scotty's arms wrapped around his torso, holding him firmly in place.

All of this happened before Scotty left, of course. It has been two years since Scotty was offered the opportunity to visit Italy to cook real Italian food among real Italians. It has been a year and eight months since Scotty flew back for an impromptu visit and revealed that he was leaving Kevin to stay in Italy for good and have real Italian sex with a real Italian. Kevin always thought that marriages that were not recognized legally should be spared the banal dissolutions that plagued "traditional" families. Apparently, he was wrong.

*

It is 11:14 p.m. on November 6, 2012. In Washington D.C., Barack Obama has been re-elected President. In Southern California, Kevin Walker sits in a dark bar amid griping Republicans. The small, flickering television set that's fixed to the wall above the bar provides the only color and celebration in the room. The only reason CNN is even playing is that Kevin slipped the bartender $50 of his hard-earned, public-servant wages. In a few minutes, it will switch back to ESPN.

"I don't think I can stand this anymore," Kevin mutters.

"Have another drink," Robert replies calmly.

"Yes, let's have another drink. But let's do it in a place where half the patrons don't want to kill me."

"You're being melodramatic."

Kevin concedes the point with a wrinkle of his nose. "Maybe. But my point stands. Let's find a different bar. One that doesn't make me want to slit my wrists."

"Oh, of course. Senator Robert McCallister celebrating his opponent's election victory in a gay bar would certainly be a strategy to reclaim the news cycle."

For all their years of working together, for all of Robert's purported compassion for gay rights, Kevin knows that Robert still harbors under the delusion that his natural state is covered in body glitter and dancing at a gay club night till 5 a.m. As ever, this implication rankles. "I wasn't _suggesting_—"

Kevin breaks off, reining in his anger and choosing a different tack: "He wasn't exactly your opponent, anyway," he says snidely.

Kevin hopes to see Robert wince, but the Senator remains as impassive as ever: as if his defeat to Mike Huckabee in the Primary has not hurt him; as if his dwindling chances of ever taking the White House are not eating him up inside. On the TV screen, a smiling Obama steps up to the podium to speak. The volume is too low to hear what he's saying, so Kevin can only watch blankly and take Robert's advice to keep drinking.

Four years ago, when Obama was elected, Kevin and Scotty danced in the streets. The happiness was palpable as the crowds that surrounded them screamed themselves hoarse. He felt, simultaneously, as if he were part of something much bigger than himself, and as if this could be a gift for he and Scotty alone.

The next day, Prop 8 passed. As they sat together and watched the news, Scotty squeezed the fingers of Kevin's left hand and tried not to cry.

_Obama_. Obama, who has been too centrist for Kevin's taste, who has talked too much about faith and love while still not legislating in favor of love for Kevin's kind. Obama, who, despite four long, hard years, is still a good man. Kevin casts a sidelong look at Robert. _A better man._

Yet Kevin stills feels conflicted about this better man's victory. Somewhere along the way, Robert's ambition became contagious. Kevin began not only to enjoy the thrill of running (vicariously) for President, but also to crave it. It's the same obsession that has left Robert depleted – a second-time loser. All he has to show for his overwrought campaign is a second broken marriage and one more kid he sees only on court-mandated days. Kevin wonders if Robert's inability to commit – to stand still and not relentlessly push forward – has also rubbed off on him. He stares at the TV screen. He imagined himself up on stage in Washington, to the left of Robert – and, if he's honest, he never imagined Scotty or Kitty as part of the picture.

Robert puts a hand on his arm: it's his patented, _calm down and let's work together, friend_ gesture. It's calculated and condescending and it still works, because Kevin feels marginally better.

"2016," Robert says, his voice soft but firm. "You'll be there with me, right?"

Kevin tries to give a disgruntled snort, but forgets that he has just taken a sip of scotch. The sarcastic snort turns into a coughing fit and Kevin can't reply. Robert removes his hand from his arm and slaps him on the back.

"I'll take that as a yes," Robert says with a smile in his voice.

Coughing fit over, Kevin gazes back at him glassily. In lieu of knowing what else to do, he takes another swig of his drink.

He has been replaying his years-old conversation with Scotty over and over in his head. The trouble is, it was a different Kevin who admitted to harboring idle fantasies about Robert. When he was younger, he lived in fear of being 'neutered' – tied down and endlessly nagged by a partner, his supposed 'better half'. Then came Scotty, who softened and kneaded Kevin into a happier, much-improved version of himself. He wants to think that the man he became beside Scotty can live on. Yet he has a needling suspicion that Scotty _was_ his better half and now that he's gone, Kevin is left only with the callow, cynical half of himself who feared being neutered.

While the Kevin of 2008 lay in bed with his loving husband and harmlessly admitted to naughty thoughts, the Kevin of 2012 is increasingly tempted to reach out and slip his fingers against the back of Robert's neck and mouth those desires against his lips.

*

By far the most damning dimension of Kevin's current relationship with Robert is that they not only work together, but also live together. Like 1950s bachelors, they pass each other in the hallways, shuffling by in pajamas and slippers, averting their eyes. Kevin eats take-out Chinese food in his bedroom, feeling like a college student, while Robert has a housekeeper who prepares and leaves on the kitchen counter nutritiously-balanced meals for him.

When Scotty left, the loss of the second income pushed Kevin into taking a mortgage on his loft. Then the mortgage repayments became a burden during the relentless travel of the Presidential campaign. During the brief periods when he was at home, the apartment only served to remind him of Scotty or, worse, his former single life. Finally, he sold the place at a loss.

By contrast, when he and Kitty divorced, Robert hung onto the huge family house. He didn't even redecorate. A framed photograph of Kitty still sits on the hall table. When Kevin saw the picture and raised an eyebrow, Robert simply remarked, expressionlessly, "It's part of the house."

When the campaign wound down and the two of them drifted back to California, Robert offered Kevin the guest room – for a reasonably-negotiated slice of his wages. It's a perverse arrangement, but Kevin can't seem to take any real action to find a new place of his own. He likes being rudderless. He likes being around Robert. There's no pretence between them – they're both despondent, middle-aged men with a poisonous streak of egoism. Minor correction: there's one point of pretence between them. Kevin pretends that he doesn't want to fuck Robert and Robert pretends not to realize.

A few weeks ago, Robert conducted an interview at the house – a boring follow-up to his campaign disaster for _Newsweek_. Unaware of the journalist's presence, Kevin barrelled through the front door, complaining loudly, "The traffic on the freeway's a nightmare and it's like an oven in here. Has Graciela been fucking with the air-con again? Honestly, you'd think she could…" The journalist raised her eyebrows and Robert laughed and explained the situation.

Robert commented later, "You know, it's a good thing you're not a woman. The media could have a field day with the fact that my Communications Director is also my lodger." To Kevin's ears, the way he pronounced _lodger_ sounded inconscionably dirty, but Robert just smiled blandly and socked him on the shoulder.

Last week, Robert casually mentioned that Jason was back in town. Kevin knew that Jason's world tour of needy folks in want of saving had, for some reason, landed him in Montana for a year-long stretch. Kevin remembered seeing on Robert's desk a snapshot of Jason and some beefcake boyfriend posing in the snow. Jason's relocation to LA suggested that the beefcake was history and Southern California required some saving.

"What's that got to do with me?" Kevin asked, chafing a little at the reminder of another failed relationship.

"Just keeping you informed," said Robert.

*

Despite the night's chill, the house has retained the heat of the day. When Kevin and Robert return home that evening, the house is a few degrees above what's comfortable. Kevin rolls his eyes, silently cursing Graciela, the housekeeper, who lives to torment him: switching off the air-con and unplugging his TiVo are just two of the unforgivable sins that she commits on a daily basis. Kevin weaves through the house to the kitchen. He grabs a beer from the fridge, rolling it gratefully across the back of his neck.

To his surprise, Robert follows him. He puts his keys and his phone down and reaches for a beer, also. He doesn't say anything. He just stands, leaning against the kitchen's central island and taking measured swallows from his beer. By contrast, Kevin drinks more sloppily, gulping back as much of his beer as possible. Since he can't imagine himself sleeping any other way, he wants to at least increase his chances of passing out soon. As he drinks, a thought occurs to him. He realizes he's grinning like a lunatic and it has caught Robert's attention.

"50 Cent!" Kevin announces loudly. "Vin Diesel… Toby Keith…"

"What's that you're saying?" Robert says, sounding mildly irritated.

Though his sour mood has been effectively counteracting his blood alcohol level for most of the evening, Kevin feels he has now reached the tipping point – the liquor has finally begun to do its job and laughter seems to be bubbling up his throat like a physical reaction.

"I'm listing… I'm… I'm making a list!" Kevin says triumphantly.

"A list of _what_?"

"A list of—a list of—" The thought is so funny that Kevin can barely get the words out. "A list of men who'd go gay before _you_ would.

"Eminem," he adds. "Larry King."

Robert stares at him for a long moment and then looks away. "You need some coffee," he says calmly.

Now it's Kevin's turn to be irritated. He wanted a reaction from Robert; a peevish, WASP-y show of embarrassment. Alcohol causes his annoyance to flare into something like anger. He raises his voice: "You'd probably give yourself an ulcer before you'd give in to a non-heterosexual impulse."

"Perhaps," is all Robert says, still maddeningly unruffled.

"You don't care that I want you, do you?" Kevin says, defeated and tired of fabricating his feelings. Robert is a smart guy: smart enough to run for President; smart enough to know when his aide has grown too close to him.

Robert doesn't say anything for a moment and Kevin can see that no surprise registers in his eyes. Then Robert moves to mediator mode: "You want Scotty," he corrects Kevin gently.

Kevin can't deny it. A year and eight months; one fraught Presidential campaign; approximately two thousand masochistic jerk-off fantasies of falling to his knees before a Republican Senator – and it's still Scotty he's in love with.

Instead, Kevin flings out his last piece of ammunition. "But you never really wanted Kitty. Not as your wife, anyway."

Robert typically loses his shit in a split-second. He's perfectly calm – and then he's not. It's something that Kevin, in his professional capacity, has tried to wring out of him. If he wants to show anger, Kevin has taught the Senator, he should build to it – a steady burn that displays his power, not a split-second shit fit that shows only his loss of control.

"You never understood my relationship with Kitty," Robert bellows. "You and your… _family_. You were part of the reason she left. You put thoughts inside of her head. You manipulated her. You all did." Robert finally finds the restraint to lower his voice and continues, still visibly trembling, "I loved your sister very much. She meant a great deal to me. Just because I don't spend hours chewing over every aspect of our divorce doesn't mean I don't care about her."

Robert's voice is low and mean now. He continues: "Why did Scotty leave, Kevin? Why did he suddenly want to get six thousand miles away from you? What did you put him through?"

Kevin is so angry that it's affecting his vision. Robert's beautiful face is a blurred mess and Kevin thinks he can see a sickly orange color bleeding from his eyes. He can barely articulate himself, muttering only, "You fucking… you _f-fucking_…" Finally, he spills out, desperately, "He _cheated_ on me."

"I know." Robert finally sounds calm again, his shit fit over. "But you cheated on him, too."

_The campaign,_ Kevin thinks hollowly. Demanding as a lover, the campaign ate up his time and energy. Slowly, his focus reduced till it illuminated a single person – and it wasn't his husband.

An arm's length apart, Kevin and Robert stand. Kevin imagines that the emotional fallout from their argument has glued him to the spot, like a shell-shocked soldier on the battlefield. Though Robert seems to be willing himself into stillness, Kevin's hands still shake. His grip loosens unconsciously and the beer bottle slips from his hand. The noise as it smashes on the slate tiles causes Kevin to turn his head, watching the pieces splinter on the floor. It's at that moment that Robert reaches for him.

The clamminess of Robert's hands is a surprise. His palm slips against Kevin's cheek as he guides their faces together. Kevin breathes in, a quick gasp that fills his nose with the scent of Robert's cologne. Robert's mouth finds his; it's an immediate, open-mouthed flood of sensation. Kevin is light-headed and can react only on instinct, their tongues meeting messily.

When they break apart, Kevin expects Robert to immediately start murmuring apologies. He looks more broken-apart than Kevin has ever seen him, but his hand remains clammy against Kevin's cheek and he says nothing.

Kevin reaches for his pants. Black and tailored, they're the silky, expensive kind that Kevin used to wear when he was a lawyer, before circumstances dictated that he downgrade to the GAP sale rack. As Kevin pings open the button and begins on the fly, he waits for Robert to stop him. However, Robert remains silent and his cock is communicating loud and clear. When Kevin pulls open his underwear and takes it in his hand, Robert lets out a single, sharp breath.

When Kevin drops to his knees, he puts a hand down on the floor to steady himself and a small splinter of broken bottle stabs his palm. He barely feels it.

Scotty was the consummate cheerleader in bed: like a potty-mouthed motivational speaker, he narrated every moment with a _god, yes_ or a _fuck, you're good_. Theirs was the perfect, _Out_-sponsored modern gay relationship; they talked about everything in bed, gently correcting each other's moves and never afraid to be honest in an awkward situation. By contrast, Kevin can tell already that Robert will never offer up a thoughtful critique of his sexual style; he'll never smile kindly and say, "let's do it _this_ way instead…" He'll be impenetrable as a lover: silent and stoical; an 'if you can talk about it, it's not worth doing' type.

Kevin can't help but get a perverse kind of satisfaction from Robert's overt show of restraint as Kevin takes his cock in his mouth. It makes each telltale sign of pleasure that Robert betrays – a tiny grunt, a bitten lip, a sharp breath – even more exciting for Kevin. He's sucking Robert's cock and Robert is getting off on it. This he knows. The straight Republican is about to shoot his load into a faggot's mouth and the faggot couldn't be more thrilled. He's reminded of his short-lived career of 'turning' straight boys in college: the prosaic rhetoric of, "you wanna get your dick sucked, so why not let me do it?" all that was required for a half-hour of situational homosexuality.

It is, admittedly, not a great blowjob. Kevin's more than a little drunk and, as a result, he's too sloppy, his reaction times too slow. Yet, as he feels Robert's fingers push against his hair and dig into his scalp, he can tell that he has succeeded in pushing Robert to the brink of orgasm.

When Robert comes, Kevin savours the familiar sensation against the back of his throat. Unsteadily, he pushes himself up into a standing position. He leans over the sink and spits. Robert's beer bottle lies half-empty and discarded on the counter, so he reaches to take a sip. He remembers, drunkenly, that the kitchen is convenient venue for oral sex.

Kevin wonders if they're done now – if Robert, like the college frat boys, will scamper away, back to his comforting heterosexuality. Kevin leans back against the edge of the sink and tries to retain the satisfaction that he just made Robert come. However, desire is twisting through his chest, fingering his windpipe, till he feels short of oxygen. He _wants_.

He catches Robert's eye and they just look at each other for a moment. Robert still seems impenetrable. But, as Robert closes the distance between them and initiates another kiss, Kevin realizes that a fissure of contradiction has opened and is rapidly widening. He may not know what Robert is thinking, but he does – in surface terms, at least – know what he's feeling.

They kiss again, with a little more ease, a little more knowledge of each other. As Robert's mouth strays from Kevin's lips, he murmurs in his ear, "Let's go upstairs."

It's such a polite, ridiculous euphemism that Kevin almost laughs. He realizes it's as close as Robert will ever come to delivering the truth: _I want you to fuck me_.

"Okay," says Kevin.

*

To his surprise, Kevin does not wake up alone the next morning. He forgot to draw the curtains last night and the room is overly bright now, exacerbating his hangover. Beside him in bed, Robert lies unconscious and unmussed. As Kevin gazes at him, he finds that it's almost hard to believe that they ever had sex. Robert's lips do not betray being kissed by a man. His hair looks merely sleep-ruffled, not as if Kevin yanked it hard as he thrust inside him. He is, apparently, unchanged.

Kevin realizes that the smell of him on Robert's body is all that remains of last night. He breathes deeply, extravagantly, and hooks his chin into the warm hollow of Robert's neck. Robert stirs and, as he does so, he accepts wordlessly the sensation of Kevin's mouth against his skin. Kevin feels a dim echo of triumph as he presses Robert down into the mattress and abandons soft neck kisses for an open-mouthed assault against his lips. It's a manoeuvre that requires participation. That Kevin receives this participation – as part of morning-sour kisses in the sober light of day – is another surprise.

Kevin gropes for Robert's erection, half-expecting to find it absent, but it swells to fill his hand. _I am doing this_, he thinks fiercely as he strokes Robert to climax, _this is real_. When Robert comes, Kevin watches the moment register on his face: the hooded eyes, the flushed cheeks, the unsteady breath. It is palpable proof of their sexual relationship – and it is gone a moment later. Robert skin fades back to porcelain, his breathing evens out and his eyes open.

Kevin rolls over – away – and jerks himself off quickly. Robert remains quiet, still. He doesn't reach out to touch Kevin. This is not a surprise.

Kevin finishes – it's more of a relief than a climax – and a few minutes pass in heavy silence. Then Robert climbs out of bed. He retrieves his clothes from the floor and redresses in last night's shirt and pants. To Kevin, it seems absurd to do so for such a short walk of shame down the hall, but there is a very slight chance that Graciela may be working this morning and it would be unseemly for her to spy the Senator walk naked from the bedroom of his aide.

Robert pauses at the door as he is leaving. He meets Kevin's eye and Kevin glimpses a squirming mess of emotions. But the fissure that allowed last night to happen has already begun to close. He says, "Thank you, Kevin," in the same brisk tone that he typically uses to end their briefing sessions.

Kevin gets dressed and wanders downstairs to the kitchen. As it turns out, Robert's fears were unfounded – Graciela is not here yet. She will arrive soon and, without asking questions, she will sweep away all evidence of last night. Kevin toes at the pieces of broken glass on the slate floor. He touches the palm of his hand. The place where he cut himself is already beginning to heal.

Kevin opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of beer – hair of the dog and all that. Then he reaches for what he really came downstairs for: Robert's phone, abandoned last night on the counter. He scrolls quickly through the list of contacts, presses connect and then listens to the dull, faraway ringing.

"Hey, what's up?" a voice answers.

Jason's voice is warm, expecting to hear his brother.

"It's not Robert," says Kevin, "it's me."

Jason passes the test, however reluctantly, when he says, "Kevin. This is a surprise. Except not really."

"How have you been?" Kevin asks, for lack of anything better to say.

"Just fine. I guess you heard I'm single and I'm in town. My brother has a big mouth."

It's been five years, but Kevin can still tell the difference between Jason's puffed up, all-for-show irritation and his real version of pissed off. This is almost certainly the former.

"You knew he'd say something. You've been waiting for my call," says Kevin.

"Maybe..." Jason says slowly and Kevin can hear the smile in his voice. "I think Big Brother's got a little of the matchmaker in him."

Letting Jason's statement hang in the air, Kevin closes his eyes and leans against the counter. He takes a sip of beer and thinks momentarily of Robert's nervous hands, his tightly-coiled desire.

"You want to get together?" Kevin says at last. "It might be good to catch up."

"Can't hurt," says Jason

Kevin grips his beer bottle more tightly and, in doing so, he reopens the small tear in the palm of his hand. "No," he echoes, "it can't hurt."


End file.
